The Network
by Cosmical-Wallaby
Summary: You're homeless now, and you're not coping. Times are rough. You've heard stories, rumours perhaps, of others ways money can be earned. You need that money, even if it could be dangerous.
1. Chapter 1

Your hand pauses a millimetre from the slightly crooked knocker as you stare up at the house. _Just Knock_, you think to yourself. _You have to knock_.  
Even so, you're afraid. Even so, the alternative scares you more. You square your shoulders and tug at the front of your oversized hoodie, and finally dare knock.

The door is answered by an old woman with short hair and slight smile, which disappears the second she sees you, replaced by tired exasperation. You feel your face grow hot as the words choke you "I…I um" you stutter out uselessly "I'm here to…to" you trail off once more.  
"Sherlock Holmes?" she asks. You nod. "Upstairs dear. Go straight in" she tells you, pointing up the stairs. You nod again, waiting till she has turned away to step inside and head up the stairs.

Despite the instructions, the firmly shut door demands another knock, which goes ignored. You consider leaving. But then what? Where would you go?  
"Come on" you mutter to yourself, hand against the door "Come on"  
"Come in" the door responds. You whip your hand away, realising you must have been heard. Running is no longer an option, so you push to the door open instead.

He sits across the, so much so you wonder how he heard you, and yet even so know not to doubt it. The expression mirrors his photos perfectly, but his eyes are even more captivating. Keen, piercing. He looks you up and down and you wonder what he knows already. He doesn't speak. Sherlock Holmes.  
"I'm not a client" you blurt out before he can ask.  
"I know" he replies. _What do you know?_ You feel like asking. Instead you simply go straight to the point "I need money. I want to be part of the…the network" you explain. Still standing in the doorway, yet to be invited in, you shift from one foot to the other. You don't want to say it.  
"The…homeless...network" you mutter. It feels like a brand, acid on your tongue. Homeless.

"Well you certainly look the part." his reply is curt and biting. You hand goes to your hair, which hangs lank and greasy "Sorry" you mutter "Haven't had chance to clean up for a while"  
"You aren't coping very well after just a month" he states. You feel like leaping across the room and throwing a punch. It's easy for him to say, with his clever deductions and cosy flat "A month is long time when you've got nothing".  
You expect more questioning on it but he quickly moves on "No addicts or any sort. No illiterates-"  
You realise he's listing rules. The attitude is painful but oddly refreshing after the mixture of disgust and sympathy your used to. This feels like a job interview.  
"-and if you are caught in any compromising situation…" he begins  
"You'll play dumb" you finish for him. That part at least was obvious.  
He leaps from his chair and rummages in a draw, digging out a camera phone, typing something and throwing it across the room to you. You fumble and only just manage to catch it "It has the address and picture of the man you're looking for. See what time he gets home, see who is with him"  
You stare at him in confusion for a few seconds "So…am I part of them now?" you ask  
"Depends on what information you come back with" Sherlock smiles, walking over and pressing a note in your hand "I'll pay for whatever you find out"

You stare down at the money, a mixture of shock, confusion and happiness at having some sort of income, even as shady as this "Thank you, Mr Holmes" you smile, slipping the items in your pocket. "I won't disappoint"


	2. Chapter 2

It takes you roughly four hours to realise this will not be as easy as you thought. That's approximately how long ago it began to rain.  
You have found yourself sat outside a large, white townhouse, in a part of London your kidneys wouldn't pay for. Or possibly all of you.  
You were almost hoping for some seedy back alleyway, at least there you wouldn't have looked quite so out of place. Round these parts you feel bad even sat on the pavement. Like you might dirty it.

You yawn, rolling your shoulders back. You haven't seen the man yet, or anybody for that matter, come out of the gleaming black door. You dig in your hoodie pocket and place the worn, filthy cap in front of you. Might as well see if anybody here feels generous as you wait.

A car door slamming jolts you out of a half dream, and you quickly glance about, praying you haven't missed the man. Apparently for the first time in years, god is feeling generous.  
You feel the urge to double check the photo on your phone. The man in the picture was clean shaven and well groomed. This man looks a mess. His hair very nearly touches his shoulders and his stubble suggests he hasn't shaved for while. He stumbles, face pale, and his hand shoots out to the wall beside him. He braces against it, retching and heaving, and you wince away. Drunk.

Even so he is tall, and underneath the poor self care and drink, perhaps even handsome. This has to be the man. You shift your weight, urging your legs back to life as the man reaches his gate. You shrink back as he turns, swaying, towards you. Sherlock Holmes wanted you to watch this man. This man must be dangerous. A criminal, a killer even. This man may even know you're watching him. He might…he might…  
With an awkward flailing movement, he digs in his coat pocket. You wonder knife or gun. Or something else even more brutal. His hand reappears again and you stumble back, away from him, not daring to look.

Nothing comes. You stay this way, head turned for a few minutes, and then hear the gate open and shut again, then the door. Confused, you creep forward again, your heart thudding.

Your cap sits where you left it empty. You quickly snatch it, ready to run, and glance down in surprise as it crackles. You pull out the crumpled twenty pound, glancing between it and the house.  
This man must be dangerous. A criminal. A killer. Evil.  
Evil enough to give a street kid his money?


End file.
